Fear and Desire
by Mimine

I push open the door, my heartbeat quickening at the complaining sound it makes. She does not stir. I breathe deeply. My master is a good master. The potion which found its way in her goblet is tasteless and odourless yet not mere water as I had initially feared. Saruman is true to his word.

I guess her form under the covers. I pull back the heavy wool. My heart starts to pound again, this time not in fear. Her skin is white. So white I cannot easily tell where her nightshirt ends and it begins.

I reach until my hand encounters the gentle swell of her breasts. I want to see some colour on her. Be it blood, hers, or mine, little does it matter. My hand is like a large insect on her skin, defiling it. My touch becomes bolder. Her breasts are soft. I want to drive my yellowish nails in the silky skin and at the same time I want to bury my face in it and weep. I do neither. I simply continue tracing abstract patterns with the tips of my fingers. It is a lover's caress. One I have never given nor received.

I remember the first woman I ever lay with. A wretched creature, bony, toothless. I had paid her well and she had managed to hide her disgust. The disgust that even my mother felt at my touch. I could not understand then. I do now. I have encountered this disgust all my life.

Éowyn lays still. My hand has slipped under her nightdress now, stealing her warmth. I imagine her responding to my touch. The most likely response would be to kick me off her. Perhaps she would overpower me. My strength lies not with the sword while she prides herself in holding her own when sparring with her brother or her cousin. Have either Théodred or Éomer taken her virtue? Their mock fights with her are like mating rituals. Laughter, soft young flesh exposed, cheeks flushed from exertion. Hidden I'd watch them and my breath would also quicken from a different sort of exertion.

Is my maiden pure? With trembling fingers I untie the cumbersome laces until nothing protects her decency anymore. Creamy skin covering wiry muscle and delicate bones. She is fair everywhere, I note. I feel helpless in front of her nakedness. My heart beats like a drum in my chest and my arousal dies. Hot tears of shame cloud my vision as I realise that I cannot rape this beautiful corpse. Saruman's gift is useless. My hand retreats from her warm belly and I quickly retie the laces holding together her nightdress. She sighs softly as I tie the ones closest to her throat... were they tied before? My heart stops. She makes no more sounds so I cover her and run out like a hunted animal.

Two weeks pass. I keep the vial of clear liquid next to my bed. I do not use it. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps because late in life I have grown a conscience. It is like a rare plant, this conscience. I try to make sense of it but I cannot. It stills my hand as I reach for the potion. Cold fingers grip my throat, my heartbeat quickens, my stomach is in upheaval. It is most likely fear. I am well acquainted with fear. A sharp tongue and quick wit are rather ineffectual weapons against brutal physical force. Fear guarded me in my early years, shaped me into the man I am today. I had risen to a position of strength as Théoden's advisor yet Saruman sensed my fear and used it. How I hate that white-clad charlatan! Where is the power that he promised me? Théoden is rotting alive, as is his kingdom. It seems that I have sold my soul at a pitifully low price.

Eventually, I drug her again. I use this little power that the wizard gave me. I grip harshly her white skin. I want to leave my mark on her. One hand is on her, the other inside my breeches. I force myself to enjoy this and I do manage to rip an orgasm from my sickly body.

She is pure in the strict sense of the word. I grabbed her viciously, nearly breached her with my fingers but something stopped me. Perhaps fear. Perhaps that other feeling.

I few more days pass. I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I do not notice that she accidentally drinks from the goblet on her left, not her right. Théodred sleeps like the dead that night, unlike my siren who nearly wakes when I enter her room. I run away in blind panic and hit a wall.

A breathing, muscular wall. Fierce brown eyes meet mine. Why is Éomer prowling the halls of the castle in the dead of the night? Why am I? Did he see me running out of his sister's room?

My last question is answered as he grabs my tunic and slams me against the wall. And, wonder of wonders, my erection which had almost withered as I was fleeing Éowyn's bedchamber, returns full-force under Éomer's brutal treatment.

A strangled sound escapes my throat. Close to laughter but not quite. Is this the answer then? Is this why it is so difficult for me to touch her? I'm eye-level with Éomer's throat. He swallows hard. I want to lick on the rough stubble, bite him, make him bleed. I stare up and read shock in his eyes. Our bodies are touching and he must have felt my desire.

I think back to a boy. Soft cheeks and doe eyes, there had been a maiden-like beauty about him. He would not reach his majority for another two years, maybe more. I remember the expression on his face as he witnessed something he should not have at such a tender age. The King, his Uncle, on his throne and me, my head between his spread legs, exercising a fleeting yet real power over him. I did not need Saruman's deceitful promises then. I used my mouth well on my widowed liege, shocking him at first with this type of comfort I was offering, then binding him to me in shameful, secret pleasure.

There had been a detached efficiency to my ministrations. I'd refused my King's half-hearted attempts at tending to my needs. I felt that even though he appeared reluctant to touch me, he would have been somewhat displeased to see that I was not aroused in the least while performing those intimate acts.

The boy had found me alone a few days later. He'd petulantly demanded that I service him as well. Insolent cub! Not even in direct line to the throne... what interest could I ever have in him? I laughed at him. I was drunk with the power the King's favour had given me. The sullen boy had left then but I would feel his eyes one me, shining with impotent rage whenever I leaned too close to whisper in my King's ear.

Théoden's favour was short-lived. Eventually my mouth lost its novelty. My King's grief-fogged mind cleared and he cast me aside. Timidly, I tried to offer him my body, to use as he pleased but my advances appalled him.

My fear returned. Saruman chose his traitor well and little by little I reduced my King to a breathing corpse. For what? The privilege of becoming Saruman's servant? Governing Théoden's decrepit Kingdom? Fondling an ice maiden in her sleep to quench a desire I did not truly feel?

On the contrary, I very much desire the young man who has trapped me under his compact weight. Éomer is no doe-eyed boy anymore. I make no sound as his gloved hand closes around my throat. I'm trembling in arousal mixed exquisitely with fear.

"I could snap your neck!"

His voice is low, hoarse. If it is possible, I feel myself get even harder. His grip tightens. If I live to see the morrow I am certain I shall find his imprint.

"What were you doing in her room, filth?"

He takes a step closer to me, flattening me against the wall. My eyelids half-close in pleasure as my stiff manhood presses against his thigh. His mouth slackens in shock but he quickly recovers.

"What business had you there?"

It seems to occur to him that he ought to relax his grip on my throat if I am ever to answer his questions. I draw in a harsh breath when I find myself able to do so again.

"You fear for her virtue? From me ?" I whisper. He cannot see how ridiculous this is.

He says nothing. His presence is maddening. I want to press against him again but I control myself.

"I would much rather slither in your bed, my fair Éomer," I say, surprising myself with my lack of self-preservation.

I have no words to describe his expression. He tries to take a step back but I hold on to him and even though my strength is laughable compared to his, he does not pull away. I see something of the boy I remember in his eyes. Awkward, inappropriate lust. I press my face on his warm neck, licking and softly biting the rough skin. I'm holding on to him tightly, determined to enjoy the few seconds before he will come to his senses and push me away.

I wait for that moment but it does not come. A moan rumbles in his throat and I feel him hot and hard against my middle. Laughter rises in my chest but I hold it back. I'm suckling on his neck now and the way he's thrown his head back tells me he is enjoying this. He is thrusting against me, just barely, almost timidly. I am rubbing my arousal against his thigh much more wantonly and soon he matches my rhythm.

His fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. My back hurts as he thrusts against me, pushing me against the stone wall. The pain is distant, unimportant. Pleasure drowns it completely as I find my release. He bites on his wrist and makes hardly a sound as he too reaches his climax.

The air is heavy with mixed arousal. He draws in a shuddering breath then pulls back, avoiding my gaze. He turns to leave.

"If I catch you near Éowyn's room again I will kill you," he says quietly.

I laugh harshly. "How about your room? Your bed? Am I welcome there?"

I find myself on the cold floor, holding on my bleeding mouth. He did not hit me as hard as he could have. A quick check shows that all my teeth are still there. I laugh again as he leaves me. He will not go far.

Chapter 2: Trapped

I examine the marks he has left on me. On my wrists, my neck, my back. Lively purple on my yellowish skin. I trace them with my fingers. I want to see them renewed. I want to have anything proud Éomer would be willing to give me.

I wait and before the marks have faded completely, he comes to me. A shadow outlined faintly by the weak light from the hallway. Breathing heavily. Hesitating.

"You're letting escape what little warmth is in this room," I mock him.

He closes the door behind him and stays there, leaning against the strong wood. I pity him, in a way.

I push aside my covers. It is so cold I can see my breath, grey wisps in front of me. There is a fireplace in my room but only a few burning coals remain, hardly enough to chase the bitter cold of this night.

Éomer was outside. I can smell the snow on him, wet clothes, wet man. He is trembling as I approach him and not from the cold, I think.

Layers of wet clothing cover his skin. He sits still as I slowly remove them. Obediently raises his arms when I ask him to, says nothing.

I am well aware of the ugliness of my grey nightshirt and the even greater ugliness it hides. I do not remove it. Unlike me, he is hot inside, hot under my palms as I run them over his naked chest. He draws in a sharp breath and tries to take a step back from me. The heels of his boots make a dry sound against the closed door.

I smell drink in the white cloud of his breath. He has lowered his head, his limp hair hiding his features. My cold hands move lower, to his lightly furred stomach. He warms me up from the inside like the finest ale. My hands roam lower and he is hot there, burning hot even through his breeches. I push them down slowly and he sags against the door. Beautiful. Exposed. Mine.

I want to laugh in triumph but I cannot breathe. Not while I'm staring at what little of him I can see. The moon is almost full tonight, generously offering some of its silvery light to my bedchamber.

I close my eyes and sink to my knees in front of him. I let his smell take over, his taste. He gives out a small cry when I take him in my mouth and his hands fist in my hair.

It has been a while since last I have done this but my mouth remembers. He is insistent, pressing my head down. Choking me. It is not wise, my mouth is still equipped with fairly sharp teeth but I do not remind him of that fact. I take the punishing pain against the back of my throat, the thrill of near suffocation. He does not let me faint and I pull back, breathing through my nose. My respite is short-lived. He pulls on my hair again, brutal in his need.

Incoherent cries leave his lips, half-formed words. I taste power. I taste him and that final cry as he fills my mouth undoes me completely. I reach and take myself in hand and a few strokes are enough. I sob my release against his thighs, overwhelmed, holding on to him as though he were a tree bark. I think his hand is still in my hair, gentle now, stroking, and my sobs continue, the saltiness of tears in my mouth mingled with his bitter essence.

It is a reaction that horrifies me but I cannot control it. I do not know how long we stay like that. I start to shiver, now that the heat of passion is gone and so does he. He untangles me from him, and pushes me back, not unkindly.

I do not want his kindness. I do not! I'm still knelt on the floor, breathing deeply to regain my composure, a snivelling, sticky heap of grey. He prods me with his foot. I raise my head to face him, my eyes finally dry even though my cheeks are still wet.

He turns from me, quickly dressing, his fingers trembling, fumbling with his many laces and buttons.

He leaves me there, all the spiteful, goading words I had for him, locked in my throat. I can still feel the ghost of his touch in my greasy hair.

In the morning, I try to dismiss it all as a dream. I need to. Even though I see the bruises on my knees and feel my nightshirt stiff with my dried release. I try and nearly succeed until I see him. And in his eyes there is not his usual disdain but something... something else. Close to compassion, perhaps shame. His nocturnal activities must not be giving him much cause to be proud either. He avoids my gaze as he turns to his sister and makes some comment. Her clear laughter echoes in the dining hall. I am surprised to see mirth in my King's normally dull gaze. And suddenly it occurs to me that what has become habit for me, enriching every one of Théoden's meals with Saruman's brew, slipped my mind this morning.

Poison. A coward's weapon of choice. It was easy, was it not? Saruman provided it, all I had to do was administer it and my King was meek as a lamb. Listening to everything I said, letting me run his Kingdom. And if I stop? Will the wizard understand I had a sudden attack of conscience and decided to disobey him? Against whose wrath would I have a better chance?

I want to laugh but I do not, afraid that I may scream instead, scream until my throat is raw and I cannot make any sound anymore. I meet Éomer's brown gaze again and I read this kindness which hurts like a knife in my chest.

I should tell him what I did to his sister, how I drugged her and touched her against her will. I should embellish the tale of my pitiful failure as a rapist, speak of her white skin under my hands, her tender lips locked with mine... Would Éomer dare to look at me with compassion then? Would he dare pet my hair as I wept?

Anger paints red my bloodless cheeks, hopeless rage that I know will not change anything. I will let my King laugh today and drug him again tomorrow. I will not give Éomer reason to tear me from limb to limb, for his sake as much as mine. Saruman would probably object to losing his convenient little traitor.

I leave quickly while they still laugh. My plan remains. They are all dead but do not know it. The King is close, I'll send Théodred to his death one of these days, as for Éomer, I'll find a way to dispose of him as well. I will then take Éowyn as my wife and govern Rohan... I was foolish enough to believe Saruman when he promised me all that, why not continue?

I do laugh now. Dry choking sounds that leave me breathless. I cannot stop. A young servant, who had been sent to my room to fetch me, flees in terror. I do not blame him. I too would flee from me if I could.

Chapter 3: In the dark

Saruman knows when I need a new bottle of the poison I've been feeding my King and has it sent to me. This time he has included a smaller flask. My reward. I have no use for it anymore and let it gather dust at my bedside table, next to the first one he gave me.

I am tempted to use it some nights. Bitter, sleepless nights when I wait for the sound of footsteps that slow down or even stop just outside my door. Nights when I beg silently for him to open my door and enter my cold, dank chamber. He walks on and I laugh at myself in the darkness for that stupid yearning in my chest, the warmth in my loins. Hopeless arousal that I try to will away before taking myself in hand and giving in to my solitary pleasure. It brings me no peace.

I turn and stare at the little flask then. With two drops I will sleep like the dead, like Éowyn under my foul touch, though a far less beguiling sight. A few more drops and my rest would be more permanent. It would be a coward's way out and though I believe that the word describes me perfectly, I'm too much of a coward even for that.

One night I reach and take the flask in hand just as the footsteps are going by my door. I bring it to my lips, unsure of how much I'm going to drink. There is a soft rap on the door, so unexpected that my hand jerks away, spilling half the contents on the bedcovers. Hastily, my heart pounding in my chest, I put the flask at my nightstand just as he walks in without waiting for a reply. As though he knew what I was about to do. As though he would care if he knew.

He closes the door behind him. My eyes strive to pierce the darkness and read his features but do not succeed.

"You are awake."

"Yes," I reply. My voice is unsteady so I bite back a scathing remark about how unlikely it would be for me to have remained asleep when he walked in my room as lightfooted as an ox. It is best to say nothing, either way. I would not want to confuse him with irony. His intellect is hardly his greatest strength.

He walks reluctantly the few steps to my bed.

"What do you want, Éomer?" I say tiredly.

"I believe you know," he replies gruffly and sits heavily at the foot of my bed. His eyes glitter in the darkness. I still cannot make out his expression.

"And if I don't want you?"

I must have been very unconvincing for he laughs softly.

"I doubt that," he says and I feel his hand on me. Over the covers, true, yet the touch empties my mind completely. His hand passes over my knee and travels higher and even through two woollen blankets, my heavy cotton sheets and my nightdress, it is on its way to touching me intimately. I do not know whether he feels my arousal but I certainly feel the sweet pressure of his broad palm. I breathe in sharply. He gives out a chuckle. Whether he felt it or not, he knows.

I turn my back to him abruptly, a silly, childish attempt to fight him.

"Go!" I whisper.

He pays me no heed. His hand still travels upwards until the heavy covers no longer separate it from my skin. I am not prepared for the feeling of his fingers on the nape of my neck. I give out a sigh and arch back as pleasure spreads all through my body from his gentle touch. I suspect that if I were a cat I would have started purring at this moment. Yet, without warning, I could also turn and scratch him, ungrateful as only felines are allowed to be. I keep that in mind but leave it for later. I cannot stop him now.

"You said you would come to my bed," he says casually, as though I had said those words yesterday rather than nearly a month ago.

"You hit me after I said it."

The fingers stop stroking for a moment.

"True, yet a few days later I came to your room. Did it not occur to you to return the visit?"

"Perhaps I was too busy visiting someone else," I say nastily.

His hand forms a fist in my hair.

"You lie! You haven't been near Éowyn!"

"You seem so sure. Have you been keeping her bed warm, older brother? She certainly adores you enough..." the rest is lost in a howl of pain as he yanks my hair back brutally.

"Be silent!" he hisses, lowering his head to look into my eyes. "Speak ill of my sister again and I'll wring you neck!" Abruptly he lets go.

"Why do you do this?" he says tiredly. "Do you want me to lose my temper? Do you want me to hurt you?"

I bury my face in my pillow, saying nothing. It appears that I have been found out.

He leans so close to me that I feel his warm breath as he whispers in my ear.

"If anything, Éowyn says that she has seen less of you these past few weeks. It vexes her, somewhat, for I suspect that she had been taking a certain malicious pleasure out of thwarting you."

There's humour in his voice. He is jesting with me, about his beloved sister, no less! My famous eloquence has abandoned me completely faced with the absurdity of the situation.

The chill pierces my back. He has pulled down my covers and now his hand slips under my nightshirt to warm my cold skin. The pleasure of his touch is overwhelming. Instinctively I rub against the mattress to relieve some of the unbearable pressure.

"Your skin is soft," he whispers with wonder. "Soft and hairless as a woman's."

I am not sure I ought to find his remark flattering, yet despite my mind's doubts, my body arches to his touch and an appreciative murmur leaves my lips.

His hands move higher again, to bury themselves in my hair.

"And your hair... it is fine like black silk."

Is he trying to woo me? Has he no idea of how little sense his words make? I cannot tell him. I do not trust myself to speak. I am steadily thrusting against the mattress. I wonder whether he can feel my body shift or even smell the musk of my arousal. I think a caught a whiff of it but it might have been him I smelt.

"And your eyes... they are blue like... the sky."

He is no poet. I stifle a chuckle as I turn to face him.

"There is no need for this, Éomer. I will give you what you want." I try to move away from his touch. My body is most unwilling.

He does not let me squirm from under him. His face is close enough for me to see confusion in his dark eyes.

It all happens too quickly for me. Within seconds I find myself on my back under him. His hand has closed around both my wrists and has them pinned over my head. His legs are on mine, his knees digging painfully on my thighs. I'm spread out under him, so aroused that I have to remind myself to breathe.

Fear comes only when he starts to remove my nightdress. It is not mixed with excitement, like before, but with a shame that makes my cheeks burn. I have no delusions about my appearance. I will not bear to face the disgust in his eyes when they fall on my weak body. I struggle under him to no avail. He does not mean to hurt me but I leave him no choice.

He pulls roughly, tearing the heavy cotton as easily as though it were parchment. His breathing is laboured. My knee connecting—probably painfully—with his groin, reveals his arousal. He is still fully dressed.

He caresses me awkwardly, keeping my wrists in his iron gip, my legs in the vice-like hold of his own. His free hand roams on my skin and after an initial hesitation takes a hold of me. His strokes are fast and sure, rekindling my arousal despite the shame and fear in my heart. I have closed my eyes and I'm pressing my face on the side of my arm.

He quickens his rhythm on me, until the heat that had pooled in my middle explodes, soiling his hand. Tears escape my shut lids. I open my eyes and everything is a blur.

"All I wanted was to pleasure you!" he says angrily. "Is that so distasteful?"

He lets go of my wrists and climbs off me. Once more I turn my back to him, pressing my wet face in my pillow. Distasteful? For him, I should think.

"Do not leave yet," I whisper hoarsely. I gather my courage and half turn to meet his eyes. They are round with confusion, the eyes of the boy I remember so disgusted and fascinated by what he had caught his Uncle and me doing. I reach and stroke his cheek and the roughness of his beard disperses the illusion.

He reads in my face the consent I will not voice. His hands start to stroke my bare back, slowly moving lower until his intent can no longer be mistaken. I arch back and feel him hot and hard inside his breeches. I keep the contact, trying to show him that there is no need for him to calm me down like a skittish mare.

He gives out a moan and his hands abandon my back. He quickly bares his body from the waist down. The feel of his skin is astounding, burning hot there, between his legs, waking in me a hunger that I never knew existed. He holds my body up against him, pressing his hardness against me, the wet head smearing me. The feeling scares me. I have little experience with what I'm provoking him to do to me.

He stops and pulls back from me. Panic coils in my chest. He will leave me now. Alone in my cold room, my solitary bed, aroused and miserable.

I turn to face him. He has a small vial in his hands and is struggling to unstopper it.

"To ease the way," he explains, lowering his head to hide behind his hair.

I take it from his shaking hands. Scented oil, how inappropriate.

"I see you came prepared."

He seems ready to bolt at my mocking words. Half-naked and excited in the hall, he would be quite a sight. I grab his hand, realising that he is as scared about this as I am.

"You have done this before, have you not? Why do you hesitate?" I say harshly.

"Have you ?" he asks me and the gentleness in his tone envelops me in an odd warmth. I shake it off with difficulty, tears of rage filling my eyes.

"Take what you came here for, Éomer, or leave!"

He falls on me with a savage cry. The sweet smell of the oil hits me as he quickly rubs it on himself. There is still pain when he enters me, forcing me to bite my pillow to keep myself from crying out. Stubbornly, I press back to meet his thrust. Before long, sharp pleasure drowns out the pain and the way my body shifts on the mattress as he drives hard into me, easily brings me back to full arousal. The pleasure surprises me. I have had a man use me thus before but only discomfort and humiliation had marked the encounter.

He does not last long. His thrusts become more forceful, stroking me from the inside, claiming me. He stills and a moment later he is whispering nonsense in my ear as he lets go, pressing his face on the junction between my neck and shoulder.

His weight on top of me is making it difficult for me to breathe. I am still hard, so close I can feel it. However, despite my frustration, I rather enjoy being trapped under his body. I whimper plaintively as he rolls off me. At least I can tend to my arousal now but a sudden wave of shame stops me. I raise myself on my elbows to face him.

He draws in a sharp breath. I feel the blood. Among... other things. He probably smelt it. Its metallic scent has overtaken that of the oil.

I can feel him getting ready to apologise. The mere thought sickens me. I grab his hair, bringing him close and press my lips against his to silence him. I steal his startled breath as his entire body tenses under my desperate hands. His lips are soft, too soft under my teeth so I bite and he is the one bleeding now and I rub against his lightly furred stomach, finding my release.

He pulls back, fighting for breath and I push him away from me, as though he had been the one to initiate that savage parody of a kiss. He nearly falls off the bed, giving out a strangled cry. I should laugh at this, I really should. My first kiss. Tasting of blood and tears and the cheap wine that had given my proud warrior courage enough to come to my rooms.

I collapse on the bed and curl into myself slowly, keeping my back to him. Cold, dirty, still bleeding a little, I ask him to leave.

That hated apology that does not leave his lips is in his touch. I flinch as he caresses my back. He gives out a sigh then brings my covers over my shivering body. I think I thank him and ask him once more to leave.

He cannot see that nothing has changed! He is far less forceful in his arguments whenever we lock horns the next few days. Théodred and Éowyn are shocked by his change of attitude.

One morning he finds me alone. He speaks of his dislike for me, of how he can see my side now and that although we do not agree on most issues, for the King's sake and for Rohan we must stand united. I respond with reassuring platitudes, secretly laughing at his stupidity.

I have betrayed Théoden. I have no love for Rohan. Did Rohan ever love the sickly child who feared horses and hungered for knowledge? And when the boy rose to the coveted position of Théoden's advisor, was he met with anything other than suspicion and contempt?

So I refuse Éomer's overtures during the day. Yet, at night, my body writhes in my sheets, aching for his touch. I would never have allowed it, had I known how easily I would get accustomed to it.

Tales of destruction reach the castle, of orc raids, rapes, killings and pillage. Éowyn practices her sword with a grim determination and the hatred that flashes in her eyes every time she sees me, makes me think she might decide to test its edge on my neck one of these days.

Éomer no longer tries to befriend me. Rohan's troubles have, naturally, taken precedence in his mind.

And I follow Saruman's instructions to the letter. After all, what chance do any of us have against Sauron?

Éomer appears one afternoon, his features grim, his clothes torn and bloodied. Théodred's blood has stained him. I sigh in relief when I see that Éomer is unharmed. He is staring at his cousin in sorrow. The Prince's face is a wax mask where death has already left its imprint, even though his body is still drawing breath.

Éomer finally opens his eyes to the true extent of my betrayal. Does he really think I did it all for Éowyn? I do not order his death. There are limits to what the men I command will do for me. At least that is how I explain it to myself.

Things take an unexpected turn with Gandalf's appearance. Terror increases tenfold my horsemanship and I appear before Saruman, hardly believing myself that I escaped with my life. The wizard is not pleased to see me but at least, as he says, the most important part of my work is done.

So I sit idle in Saruman's tower, an easy target for his cruelty. I wonder whether I shall feel better about it all once Sauron rules all Middle Earth. For now, I'm grateful for Saruman's aversion to mirrors. I have never taken great pleasure in staring at my reflection but now I simply cannot stand it. My scars from the last time have still not healed.

Staring at Saruman's army, I do not realise I am weeping until I feel the salty taste on my lips. Is it for Rohan? For Éowyn? For fair Éomer? I suspect it is merely for myself.

Fin

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